“Look at you,” he grunted in a raspy, possessive growl against my ear. “Taking it so well. Your body knows its master.”
Master.
The word echoed in the sudden, chaotic haze of my mind. I hated him. I hated the word, the claim, the casual, devastating way he was dismantling me, piece by painful piece.
I felt a tug, then heard a loud, tearing sound. My swimsuit bikini top, the last flimsy barrier of my modesty, was ripped from my body. He was fucking me, and at the same time, he was stripping me bare, destroying the last remnants of the woman who had walked onto this deck thinking she was safe.
He leaned over me, his fully clothed chest a solid wall against my naked back, his mouth brushing my ear. “You’re going to come for me, Kara,” he commanded. “You’re going to come on my cock, and you’re going to look at the ocean while you do it. You’re going to see how endless it is, and you’re going to remember how small and powerless you are in this world against a man like me.”
His words were a violation as intimate as his cock. He was remaking the world around me, turning the sun, the sea, the sky into instruments of my submission.
And it wasworking.
The pleasure was building, a slow, creeping tide that was impossible to fight. I was so close already. I bit my lip, trying to hold on, to cling to the last vestiges of my self-control, but it was no use.
“Don’t fight it,” he urged. He reached around, his fingers finding my clit. He circled it with teasingly slow circles, causing a fiery bolt of pleasure to ricochet through me with wild abandon.
I came hard, stars twinkling behind my eyelids as my core squeezed tight, over and over again until I was screaming.
He didn’t stop. He just kept fucking me, his thrusts never faltering, his fingers digging into my hips.
My hands slipped from the railing, my body going limp, boneless. I would have collapsed, fallen into the endless blue below, but his arm wrapped around my waist, an unyielding band of steel that held me up, held me in place for his continued merciless assault.
Another orgasm built on the heels of the first, even more intense, more devastating. I sobbed, a desperate, ragged sound that was swallowed up by the wind and the crashing of the waves. He was fucking me not just with his body, but with his will, imprinting himself on me, erasing the woman I once was and replacing her with this quivering, broken thing.
And a part of me loved it.
I loathed myself for it but craved it all the same.
I couldn’t think of anything but this. There was no ARCHEON, no mission, no escaping Dmitri Markov. There was only the relentless pounding of his dick, and the cold, indifferent sea below.
He finally came with a groan, his head falling forward against my back. I felt him come deep inside me, pulse after pulse, and a last, shuddering wave of pleasure coursed through me. He stayed inside me for long moments, and I breathed hard, just trying to gather myself. I could still feel his cock throbbing inside me.
Then he pulled out.
I closed my eyes as his seed dripped down my thighs, hot shame turning my cheeks as bright red as my ass probably was right now.
He moved with terrifying certainty.Suddenly,his hand was in my hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, but he didn’t pull it. Instead, he guided me, steering me as if I were an animal he’d just broken. He pressed down and my knees buckled, hitting the hard teak deck with a dull thud. I was kneeling before him, naked, used, a mess of his making and my own surrender.
The sun was warm on my skin, a mocking contrast to the cold dread that pooled in my stomach. I could smell us on the air—the tangy, sweet scent of sex, the faint trace of his cologne, the musky, intimate proof of my own arousal. It was humiliating. It was degrading.
And I was still trembling.
His cock, still semi-hard and glistening with the combined evidence of our union, was level with my face. It was an unspoken command, a final, brutal act of ownership.
I knew what he wanted.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my body recoiling, a last desperate flicker of defiance warring with the profound, soul-deep exhaustion that had settled in my bones.
I couldn’t. Iwouldn’t.
His other hand came up, slapping my right cheek. The cuff wasn’t a blow, not really. It was a stinging tap against my cheek, creating a sound as loud and final as a door slamming shut. It was an admonishment. A correction. It wasn’t meant to cause pain, but to impose will.
“Open your mouth,” he growled calmly. There was no anger in it. No heat. Just the quiet, absolute authority of a man who was used to being obeyed.
I flinched, my eyes flying open. He was watching me, his gaze as cold and pale as the winter sea. There was no triumph in his expression. No satisfaction. Just a patient, predatory stillness that was more terrifying than any rage.
My pride was a shattered thing, but it wasn’t entirely dead. I shook my head back and forth and he cuffed me again, a little harder this time.
